February 8, 2006

I love beef. I love a good burger, a good barbequed steak, a good roast. Love it. I could never be a vegetarian. No way in hell. It’s a wonder though.


This brings me back to a dining experience I had when I was 12 years old. I will never forget this, ever.


I was visiting a friend who lived near my grandmother’s house. I lived with my grandmother for a year or so while I was going to junior high school and would often hang out at Michelle’s house. Michelle was outgoing, tall, kinda geeky but athletic and fun to be around. On this particular day, she invited me to stay for supper. I gladly agreed. She told me her mom was making roast beef, with mashed potatoes, gravy and homemade rolls. Freakin’ awesome.


We had played outside most of the day, so by the time supper rolled around, we were starving and so looking forward to our meal. It’s a fucking wonder I will even eat a roast now. **Shudder**


We sit down at the table, all the fixins’ laid out before us. It smelled wonderful and looked divine. Did anyone ever tell you, that looks can be deceiving? Well they can.


I ate a big forkful of mashed ‘taters with gravy and oh my gawd, it was heaven. The rolls were soft and fresh, so tasty. I cut into the roast on my plate and hacked (yes hacked) a chunk off (that should have worried me right then and there) and proceeded to put the piece of meat into my mouth. I started to chew. And chew. And chew. And chew. I’m also starting to sweat. I mean how long does it take to chew a piece of meat? But this would not break up like normal. Now her parents are asking me questions. Great. How in hell do I speak with a big piece of rubbery, half chewed, mangled, won’t go down my throat, piece of meat in my mouth? I’m politely smiling with a big wad of meat tucked into the left side of my mouth, wondering what to do with it? I can’t very well purge it out of my mouth onto my plate, although that was pretty tempting. I couldn’t go to the bathroom because I couldn’t talk well enough to excuse myself. I was too paranoid that it would look weird if I just bolted from the table and ran to the bathroom.


Gawd. What do I do???? I’m looking around, trying to find a solution to get rid of this piece of chewed shit in my mouth, that abso-freakin-lutely refuses to go down and all the while, trying to eat the other food. I felt like everyone was staring at me. My pits were soaked. As I’m scanning the table, I see it. My salvation. My solution. My napkin. Lordy Lordy, thank you. I grab it and put it up to my mouth. But what now? I can’t just spit the chunk of meat out into it, they’ll see me. I had a brief lightbulb moment. I’ll pretend to cough and hold the napkin up to my mouth and cough the offending crap into the napkin. That’s gotta work right? Wellll, not quite.


I picked up the napkin and let out a big, fake cough, that I’m pretty sure startled everyone at the table. I quickly looked up and smiled, to let them know, that I’m fine but just have a touch of a cold apparently. The mushy, mostly chewed, piece of roast is now safely tucked into my napkin. Oh. Oh. Wait. No, no it wasn’t. It had fallen from my napkin, onto my lap. Super. Okay, now what? Do I pick up the offending chunk of meat that I had chewed for like 20 freakin minutes and place it on my plate? Ummmm no. Gross. Do I inconspicuously put my napkin onto my crotch and try to wrap the meat up in it? Pretty sure that’s not gonna work. I’m sweating again. As I am again trying to figure out what to do, a see something out of the corner of my eye. It’s white and fluffy. And it’s walking. OMG it’s a dog. Thank you Jesus. I’m hoping that this mutt has half a brain and a good snout. He doesn’t…. because he santers off to the livingroom to nap on the couch. Shit.


I decided to make a bold move and whistle to the dog. Michelle looks up and is kind of startled that I’ve whistled during supper. I suppose it did make me look like a tard. But come on, I’ve got a piece of mangled, chewed up chunk of meat in my crotch. Well not in my crotch, but close enough.


The dog looks up and comes running. Yay! He must have gotten a whiff of my meat…..ha. ha. ha. and comes right up to me and then begins to eat the roast out of my lap. I am cooing over him and petting him and making lots of baby talk in order to disguise the chewing noises he’s making. Michelle and her family have now stopped eating and are staring at me like I’ve got 3 heads.


It was a very uncomfortable moment but hey, I was rid of that fucking horrid piece of meat from my crotch. Oh and I was never invited back for supper. Go figure.

Now I know why.

This is my 100th post. My one hundredth. Are you excited? Come on now, show me some love. It’s. my. 100th. post. That’s something right? Is there an award for that? No? Oh.

Okay, so I’m surfing tonight, not for anything inparticular, just looking around. I was bored. Anyhooo, I come across this website that boasts that you can find true love and they’ll be a millionaire too. Wow.


Sounds too good to be true right? Well, apparently it’s pretty easy and you’ll be in love, rich and married with just a few clicks of your mouse. Look at their ad below:


The online dating agency with a BIG difference!! (Riiiiiiiight)
Having trouble finding Mr or Mrs Right (Well hell ya) ? Always in debt (Hello? Fucking right on.)? Massive overdraft (Lord yes.) ?
Welcome to Marry an Ugly Millionaire - the dating agency created for people like you (Hercules Hercules **insert retard clap here**). We provide a unique dating and marriage service. A service that you will not find elsewhere on the internet (Thank Christ.) . For we are about to solve both your financial problems and your relationship problems with just a few clicks of the mouse! (Oh my gawd, I think I wet my pants!)


Now, I’m sure that is all true. One hundred percent **cough cough**. And I like how they have their different catagories on the side….Men seeking women, Women seeking men, Gays seeking gays, blah blah blah. Oh and let’s not forget ‘Beautiful women seeking ugly millionaires’. Why the hell does he have to be ugly? But I digress. What worries me is their catagory called ‘This week’s specials’. That’s scarwee.


Special for Feb 7th: Jim, a 45 year old virgin who pisses in his underwear when he gets overly excited or eats pizza. He’s tall but has a huge anal beard. He eats his toenail clippings.


Coming up the week of Feb 13th, just in time for Valentines day: Marge, a 32 year old secretary that has a moustache and man hands but has the voice of an angel. She smells like ass though and has crabs. But she’s rich!!!!!!!!!!!!


If the weekly specials weren’t creepy enough, look at the very bottom of their side bar……REJECTS. Rejects. Now if the weekly specials are scary, how the hell terrifying are the rejects going to be?


***Shudder shudder shudder***

February 6, 2006

I just blogged below and then noticed my Google ads on the side once I published my post. Ummmm apparently because I mentioned that my ass is a no entry zone, I now have “colon problems” ads on the side.


‘Are you clean inside? Death begins in the colon’.

‘The colon cleansing kit. Cleanse intestinal buildup. Photos document results of the cleanse’. Who the hell wants to see ‘cleansing your ass’ before and after photos? Who?


Nice fucking ads. And I’m sure once I hit ‘publish post’ on this baby, that more weird ads will be clamping themselves to my blog. Super.

Who needs crack when one has Gravol?


I woke up today, feeling horrible. My stomache was turning upside down and flip flopping more than a two dollar hooker on a busy Saturday night. I was dizzy, the room spinning worse than if I had drank a pint of vodka straight from the bottle.


I popped a couple of Advil since that’s all I had. I’m pretty sure that Advil really isn’t much good for flu symptoms but it was all I could find……until I found my Gravol.


I must make a slight confession though. I didn’t have actual, brand name anti-nausiant medication, it was the ‘I’m po’ and can’t afford true Gravol kinda stuff. But it works just as well I assure you. Oh and just for clarification, it was not the rectal suppositories. My ass is a no entry zone.


I popped a couple of those babies and it was like giving a fat kid a wad of cash and shoving him in a cake shop. I was so happy. They kicked in about an hour later and I was talking to Karen on the phone and I’m pretty sure my words were starting to slur ever so slightly and I was talking like I had a spitty, extra saliva in my mouth, lisp.


Me:I think those pills are scharting to kick in.

Her:Ya think?

Me:Ya I’m pretty schure, I think I’m starting to drool.

Her:Excellent.

Me:I like schoup.

Her:What? What the fuck are you talking about? Soup?

Me:Ya, that’s what I schaid.

Her:You sound drunk.

Me:I am clearly not skunk. I’m just schick.

Her:You’re babbling. Like a freak. Making no sense.

Me:I’m making perfect schense.

Her:Huh hunh.

Me:I think I schould go lay down.

Her:I would tend to agree.

Me:Okay. I’ll talk to your ass later.

Her:My ass will be waiting.


***Insert dial tone here***


I slept on the couch for like 3 hours and when I say slept, I mean I was out. There could have been a bulldozer in my livingroom, digging up my hardwood floors and I would not have known or cared for that matter. I love my no name brand, cheap ass anti-nausia medication. It really does wonders for me. I awoke feeling a bit better but in a bit of a fog. But who cares? I got to have some hot sex dreams in the middle of the day people. Sweet.


***Gravol Caution***
Do not exceed recommended dosage (Whatever). May cause drowsiness (no shit Sherlock), avoid driving a motor vehicle or performing tasks requiring mental alertness (Ah ya think?). Avoid alcoholic beverages (Who the fuck needs booze when taking these schiznat). Do not take if you have: glaucoma, chronic lung disease, difficulty in urination due to enlargement of the prostate gland, or if you are pregnant or breast-feeding unless directed by a physician. Do not take with other antihistamines, tranquillizers or any other sedating drugs without consulting a physician (I’m assuming if I have other tranquillizers, I wouldn’t need this stuff, geez). May cause excitability (Oh I had some wicked awesome dreams), especially in children. Prolonged use should be only on physician’s advice.(Ya ya ya.)

February 5, 2006

What’s your favorite thing to do at 3:45am? Probably not cleaning up vomit. I know mine isn’t either but that’s what I found myself doing at that exact time.


My youngest son woke up and came out to the livingroom, where, surprise, surprise, I was still sitting. At the computer. I turned around to ask him what he wanted and then I heard it. No need for verbal communication at this point. He proceeded to barf from where I sat, running through the kitchen, into the bathroom. He left a nice trail for mommy so she wouldn’t get lost. Super.


I get to the bathroom after dodging the spillage left for me on my hardwood, and see my poor child. He’s covered in brownish liquid. Yum, must have been the chocolate Pediasure coming back up. I stand there for a few seconds, unsure of what to do first. Wait. I know. Wake up my husband. Why the hell should he get to sleep through this? ***Insert demented, evil laugh here*** He shouldn’t. Not at all.


I get hubby out of bed and break the bad news to him. “We have a situation. It’s pretty sick. It’s brown and a semi-liquid with a bit of substance to it. We need to move fast. It’s probably spreading as we speak”. He looks at me through his sleepy eyes and I think I caught a look of, ‘I’d like to choke you now’. But I can’t be 100% sure.


We go back to the bathroom and see poor Mr. B, standing and shivering. I become Commander Sassy and start barking orders. I give daddy the pleasure of cleaning little barfing boy and I will do damage control. Ryan then informs me, that there is also puke in his bed. Oh yes there was. ALOT.


After about 30 minutes, sick child is back in a clean bed, the floors are sparklin’ (gee, people should woof cookies more often so my hardwood gets a good scrubbing), bathroom is gleaming and bedding is being washed. Mission accomplished.


I got to crawl back into bed by about 4:30, only to be woken by my alarm at 7:30 am. Perfect.

I swear there’s a conspiracy against me. And sometimes I don’t even have to be there, for the conspiracy to take place. Let me explain.


How many times have I told stories about fucked up cashiers and weird McDonald’s/KFC/Any other fast food crap establishments employees? Alot. Well even when I’m not at said restaurants personally, shit happens.


My husband and oldest son are having lunch at McDonald’s, or Rotten Ronnie’s as I so affectionately nicknamed it. They’re sitting at a table, eating, minding their own business and they see an employee is cleaning the empty tables with her little squirt bottle of toxins and a cloth.


This employee appears to be in her late 40’s or perhaps 50-ish. So she’s hardly a child. As they’re biting into their Big Give You Clogged Arteries Macs, she finishes up the table she is cleaning and walks their way. As she approaches their table, she stops, holds up her spray bottle and proceeds to make odd, fake shooting noises at them…..I can’t even fucking spell the sound she was making.


My husband and son look at her like she’s retarded, which no offense to retarded people, who in fact probably have way more smarts than this dimwit did. She fake “shoots” them about 6 or 7 times (all the while making her weird gun utterances) and then walks away. She makes no attempt to say, hey just kidding, says abso-fucking-lutely nothing, nor does she crack a smile. They look at each other and burst into laughter, wondering what kind of fucking fucked up fucknut she was. Apparently a big one.


Oh how I wish I was there for that performance. I would have screamed, saying that my eyes were burning and ask why oh why did she shoot me in the face with her stinging cleaner? Hey I might have gotten a free meal out of it. Muahahhaahhahahahaha.

February 3, 2006

Well I finally got off my duff and created my photography blog. It’s a work in progress and I will be adding pictures often. I hope you check it out! Thanks!

February 2, 2006

I’m at the toy store. I am standing at the cash register and holding a couple of items. I place said items on the counter and start fishing through my purse and get out my CASH. Now, if you have half a fucking brain, you’re gonna guess that I’m wanting to purchase those items. Right? Right.


Cashier: Hi. You want to buy those?


Me: No. Actually I want you to take them ever so gently and shove them up your ass.


Cashier: Will that be cash or charge?


Flash back a few days ago. I’m once again standing in line at the grocery store. I didn’t, however, get Betty. She’s a hoot. A retarded hoot, but fun nonetheless.


Anyway, I get Ginny. What a prize she was. I’m guessing she is about 24. So, she perhaps graduated from high school about 6 or 7 years ago. I’m hoping that before they handed Ginny her diploma, that she was able to do basic math. Weeeeeeell, that is clearly not the case.


My purchase came to $37.42. I had two twenty dollar bills. Hmmmm. That is $40 dollars. With me so far? Good. I took a moment to see if I had the .42 cents to go with those 2 twenties to make Ginny’s life easier in that moment. Low and behold, I had exactly .42 cents. I hand Ginny $40.42. She rings in……ready? Hold on. She rings in that I gave her $940.42.


Well you might as well have told her that there was a bomb next to her and it was gonna blow. She panics. I see her starting to sweat. Good Lord, it’s not fucking rocket science. I’m standing there, waiting for her to give me THREE FUCKING DOLLARS.


Come on Ginny, you can do it. You’re in your 2o’s for shitsake, you can figure this out. Please tell me you can figure this out. My 5 year old can figure it out. A drooling, masturbating monkey can figure this out. I’m rootin’ for ya Ginny.


I give her a moment to get it together. I’ve now crossed my fingers that she’s either going to figure out that she owes me three bucks or maybe that she’s going to give me back $903 dollars. Either way, shit or get off the pot and let me get out of here. She finally looks at me and leans over and says, “I’m not sure how much change to give you back”. Ginny, Ginny, Ginny. I’m thinking that working as a cashier, having to deal with money and perhaps having to do math in your head on occasion is not the career path you should be taking. Hmmmm, you’re not pretty enough to be a model of any kind. Shit. You’re screwed hun. You’re stupid and ugly. May the force be with you.